flapdoodle and bosh

I love words. Obviously. I have a habit of using too many of them all at once and far to rapidly to be understood well. I love really great sounding words, like rigamarole or triskaidekaphobia, although the latter is a little difficult to throw into everyday conversation. I suppose I could use it if one of the kids came running into my room with a bad dream on Friday the 13th. I could say, "What is it, triskaidekaphobia?!" Or if I went to stay at a high rise hotel and the front desk guy asked if I minded being on the 13th floor; I could say, "Of course not, I don't have triskaidekaphobia."

Flapdoodle and bosh are two of my absolute favorites ever, which you may have realized if you've read many of my blogs. I stumbled upon flapdoodle while listening to one of the audio books from the Amelia Peabody series, thank you very much, Emerson. And I found bosh while looking up the definition of flapdoodle. They mean the same thing - nonsense. Someday I'm going to open a store and call it Flapdoodle & Bosh. Those two words just go together so beautifully. I don't know what I'll sell but I have no doubt it will be nonsensical and delightful.

I'd like to get the job of the guy who names everything so I could spend all day in a thesaurus. I know I wouldn't do as smashing a job as the people who already have that job. I mean, seriously, it's gotta be pretty tough coming up with 154 different names for pink. But wouldn't that be a great job? I'd be the lady holding the clipboard, with the two pencils in my hair, and goofy-looking glasses going, Let's see, how bout Blushing Rose Petal? No, no, we used that 78 shades ago. Tickled Pink? Used that one, too. Bloody knuckles. ...Sounds too red.

I actually have a friend who re-names all of her nail polish. That little piece of information reflects her personality well. She's the kind of gal that you could picture throwing open the windows to call in the local small animal population to help with the housework while she supervises in a poofy dress and tiara. And I mean that as a compliment.

Contrast that to myself: I'm the one you'd find in holey sweats and a nasty-looking shirt with yesterday's makeup and a pony on the top of my head, trying to exterminate the local small animal population. Forget about housework.

Her nail polish names would be magical names, like "Shimmering Biscotti Day Dream," or "Sparkling Bittersweet Fairy Dust" Mine would fall more along the lines of "Dries too slow" or "Way purpler-looking when applied." I suppose my prospects for Nail Polish Namer are not very promising. Who's going to buy something called "Only good for nylon-repair?"

Despite my completely unmagical naming techniques, I've been reclassifying things for years. Ponytail holders have been called Hair Doinkers since before any of my children were born. Quaking Aspens were promptly named "Western Flutter Leafs" (not Leaves) soon after my arrival in Utah. The mountain range closest to my house has been dubbed "The Big Blue Mountains to the East," mostly because I don't know if they have a name. I suppose they are probably just the tail-end of the Wasatch Mountain range or something. Now that's a dumb name. Big Blue Mountains to the East: Better name. Okay, not much better, but they are a delicious color of blue during most of the year. They kind of take on a brownish color in the fall but I refuse to change the name for one season of the year.

Most of the objects in my house are never called by their given names any more. At some point or other, almost everything ends up being called something like, "That big black thinger in the living room," or "That chest thingy next to the couch." Now that's really gotta be improving my kids' vocabularies.

Oh well, I'll get them each their own thesaurus and they can read it for 10 minutes a day. Then they'll have enough gibberish and gobbledygook to last a lifetime. And yes, that's really a word. Look it up, bookworm.